


I Close My Eyes and Wish for Home (It Smells Like You)

by nothinginfinite



Category: Bandom, Empires, Panic! at the Disco, Young Veins
Genre: Barebacking, Fluff and Angst, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-17
Updated: 2009-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-05 01:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothinginfinite/pseuds/nothinginfinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Jon misses home while he's on tour. Along the way, he has an epiphany.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Close My Eyes and Wish for Home (It Smells Like You)

**Author's Note:**

> **disclaimer:** If I was making money writing these stories, I wouldn't be in the debt that I am. This is in no way true or intended to hurt the aforementioned parties. Any similarities to actual events are purely coincidental. As always, please do not link this to anyone mentioned in this story or the people they know.

_You have 1 new picture mail._

Jon flips open his phone to check the message, his face lighting up when he sees it's from Tom. He stares at the picture of a little girl, face lit up with happiness and sheer joy for a long moment, his artist eye taking in the details, before scrolling down to read Tom's message.

_She's ecstatic to show her mom her new painting. But the little boy behind her is sad, because he has no one to share that with._

Jon looks at the picture again, surprised that he never even noticed the little boy in the background. This is their thing, his and Tom's. They take pictures, random captures of their surroundings and share the photos between them, challenging their photography skills.

Hearing Brendon's yell of triumph in the lounge, Jon taps out a quick message- _It gets lonely when there's no one there_ -before padding in to see what all the fuss is about, an amused grin on his face at the sour expression on Spencer's.

"Spin got schooled! _Again_!"

Jon's phone beeps in his hand and he opens it, rolling his eyes when he reads Tom's words.

_I missed your skin when you were east._

Sap.

Jon doesn't even realize he's typed the three letters into the screen and pressed Send until his phone trembles in response in his jeans pocket.

_whatever, you're wearing eyeliner now, gaymo_

Jon types _ONCE_ , punching the keys harder than necessary for useless emphasis.

"Jon. JON! He's molesting me!"

"You _wish_!"

Jon types a quick, "miss you always" before he can overthink it, hits Send, and snaps his phone shut like it might make him forget.

Jon's laughing, genuinely amused by Brendon's current position-pinned beneath Spencer, in a headlock until he hollers 'uncle'-and it's kept him from freaking out over the words he's just sent. But the vibration against his hip reminds him and he bites his lip as he pulls out his phone.

_Now who's the sap?_

A wry smile tugs at his lips and Jon taps at the keys, completely unaware that Spencer and Brendon have fallen silent until he's finished sending a quick reply- _It's not my fault that you've gotten under my skin_ \- blinking up at them in confusion.

"What?"

Brendon grins, but Jon can detect a smirk quirking at the edges and he's immediately suspicious, eyeing Brendon like he might attack him and demand he play hair salon with him. (Jon remembers the last time that happened and he'd walked away, scarred, Brendon's voice pleading at his retreating back, "Please don't be angry with me, Jon Walker. I didn't know that it would turn _pink_!" Never. Again.)

"Jonny Walker's in _love_."

"Shut up, it's just Tom."

Spencer snorts. "Yeah, and?"

"The fuck? I'm not in love with Tom, dickface."

And. It's weird, saying the words. He's never been trapped in a situation where he's had to defend himself against his supposed undying love for his best friend, and -- it's weird. It's weird, the things that make you start thinking about things you shouldn't.

Before anyone can try to bullshit anymore arguments against him, Jon bustles past them, ignoring Brendon's fingers grabbing helplessly at his jeans as he walks by, and starts rifling through cupboards, hoping the aimless activity will distract him.

Instead it only serves to give him more unwanted time to think, and Jesus, is this how Ross's head works twenty-four-seven, and if so, how is he still, like, alive?

_Ohhh_ , right. The bitchiness.

It's two hours before Tom responds.

_When are you coming home?_

Home. The word had never felt so confusing to Jon and yet, it made perfect sense. It was strange how his apartment never felt quite right unless Tom was sprawled over his couch, empty pizza boxes on the floor and a six-pack by his side, the two of them talking late into the night before stumbling drunkenly to Jon's room, giggling as they try to hold each other up, ping-ponging off the walls before finally reaching the bed an tumbling onto it, a wild twist of limbs. It usually takes a few minutes of fumbling before they're stripped down and under the covers, automatically curling into each other, wound tighter than most friends should be. And then, maybe it's Tom who makes the first move this time and there will be the soft press of lips, tasting faintly of beer and pepperoni and Jon will lose all sense of time and direction, losing himself in the kiss. And maybe, Jon will lick down Tom's body, stopping to pay attention to Tom's most sensitive areas before swooping down and taking Tom's dick in his mouth, heavy with want and bitter in the back of his throat. Jon will work his tongue and lips over him and in only minutes, Tom will be coming, hard and fast, hot spurts against the back of his tongue. And maybe, Jon won't even need Tom's help because he's already come, without being touched.

In the morning, Tom will wake to Jon making breakfast as he pads into the kitchen, pouring himself a cup of coffee and smiling sleepy-eyed at Jon, before curling himself around him, nuzzling his neck. And maybe, Jon says, "Go on back to bed. I'll bring you breakfast in a minute." There will be soft kisses and lingering touches and Tom will smile at him over his shoulder as he takes his coffee and heads back to Jon's room, the sound of his shuffling heard over the frying eggs. And maybe, Jon will smile to himself, the warmth of Tom's fingers still lingering over his skin.

Jon jolts back to reality when his phone vibrates, his heart thumping rapidly in his chest, eyes wide. _Holy shit. I'm in love with my best friend._ Pulling out his phone, he flips it open, the message clearly joking, but holding undercurrents of something dark that curls in the pit of Jon's stomach.

_I wanna sex you up._

It must take him longer to stare and evaluate the five words than he realizes, because before he can get past the thump-thump- _thump_ of his heart and the mocking voice in his head, his phone's off again, tickling his hands as the screen blinks to announce a new message.

_...or not_

Shit. And. Shit. Because now Tom will _know_ , or know _something_ , which may be worse than _knowing_ because he'll come up with something in his head that's even worse, and.

Seriously. When did he and Ryan switch brains? Also: god damn it.

He tries to remember what his own brain would do, and forces his thumb to hit the call button before he can talk himself out of it.

"'Ello." Tom's voice is rough around the edges, like Jon caught him while he was sleepy, which is ridiculous, but. Jon has to stop himself because the image of Tom just waking, hair tousled and eyes bleary is something he more than familiar with and it makes his heart ache and his the thing in his stomach curl tighter.

"I miss you." Jon's own voice is cracked, like the words bear too much energy to say and his hand clenches tighter on the phone. He slides down the counter, knees pulled up to his chest and Jon finds it ironic that he'd have this epiphany in the middle of their too-small excuse for a kitchen on their fucking _tour bus_ instead of at home in Chicago, the epiphany hitting him like a ton of bricks while he photographs Tom, who's probably taking a drink off of a cold beer or laughing at something funny on the television.

Tom, for his credit, doesn't say anything about Jon's apparent freak-out, instead, voice rumbling with the last edges of sleep, "I miss you too."

Jon exhales, his fingers loosening on the phone, heart slowing down to a normal pace.

"And for the record, asshole? I love you, too." Jon's going to kill Brendon and his sneaky ninja moves (which he totally learned from Spencer, so he'll have to go too). As soon as he's done grinning his face off.

He hears a static-ridden chuckle on the other end. "I love you too, man."

And -- oh. Oh.

That's not -- oh.

Right. Because. They _say_ that to each other, maybe not every day but often enough, and they've been comfortable enough with it for years that it doesn't mean anything and oh god, it doesn't _mean_ anything, except now for Jon it _does_ , and Tom is too thick-headed to realize it.

Asshole. Seriously.

Jon clears his throat. "Um. So, tour's over in two weeks."

"You staying in Chicago?" Tom might think he's being nonchalant, but Jon can hear the difference, can hear the anxiety that Tom will deny, will feign as curiosity but. Jon _knows_ Tom. Jon might be struggling with his emotions and _meanings_ behind three simple words and just. Going batshit insane trying to sort things out but Tom misses Jon more than he lets on and it's time like this that Jon can hear it in his voice.

"Like I'd miss out on seeing your stupid face by going to Vegas with the boys." Jon chuckles, but he's trying not to panic and he hears the rustle of sheets as Tom shifts to get comfortable, and Jon squeezes his eyes shut. He's not sure how he's going to handle seeing Tom face to face when just talking to him on the phone messes with the boundaries of their relationship and god, Jon wants this so bad.

"By the way, I forgot to tell you that my lease is up, so I'm living in your apartment now." Jon freezes at that, his mind already running rampant with the idea of Tom in his bed, the sheets smelling of his cologne and sweat, draped across his hips as he lays there, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear and perhaps, he'll have a cigarette tucked in between his fingers, the smoke curling into the air.

Shit.

Jon is so far gone.

"...Jonny?"

Oh. Right. Phone. Speaking.

"Look, man, if it's not cool I can move out, Sean's looking for a new place too, so -- "

"No -- no! No, it's -- good, no. That's, y'know. No, I want you to move in with me."

Oh. _Nice_ , Walker.

Tom snorts, and releases a long, calculated exhale, the kind when he wants to watch the smoke shoot out in one long, flowing strip, and. Yeah. Cigarette.

"You sure?" Tom asks, a teasing smirk trailing through his voice. "I fed Dylan and Clover pizza and I drank the last of the milk and I'm probably gonna jerk off in your bed pretty soon and not bother cleaning it up."

Jon is about to jokingly scold his best friend for feeding his cats such unhealthy food, but the image of Tom jerking off in his bed leaves him frozen, his breath hitching audibly. One picture bleeds into the other and he can see Tom standing in front of his fridge, naked, head thrown back as he drinks straight from the milk carton, his Adam's apple bobbing with each gulp and Jon wants to lick down the pale line of his throat, to press his lips against Tom's skin.

"Dude. Jonny. I was kidding about Clover and Dylan."

Letting his head fall back against the counter behind him, Jon presses the hell of his hand against the fly of his jeans, unable to completely mask the hiss that pushes pass his lips. "Tom." His voice is gravelly, low and heavy with want, lust dripping from that one word. "Tommy."

Jon can hear Tom's rushed exhale over the blood rushing in his ears, and a slight groan that is all Tom follows.. " _Christ_ , Walker." The words, scolding from anyone else, are desperate sounding to Jon's ears and he picks himself up, stumbling blindly back into the bunks and closing the door, sliding down to resume his place on the floor. He unzips his jeans and shoves them down far enough to free his cock, already hard and leaking, licking the palm of his hand before wrapping it himself, tugging at his dick.

There's shuffling on the other end of the phone, the quiet whisper of sheets moving and Jon closes his eyes, breathing harshly through his nose. " _Tommy_."

Fuck.

"Talk dirty to me, Tom."

A shuddering breath spills through the line, but there's no hesitation as Tom breathes out a shaky, "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

And thank _fuck_ , because they don't _do_ this, and Jon totally could've just fucked everything up to weird levels. Dirty talk is for relationships, or at least fuck buddies, _maybe_ friends with benefits, but either way, it's for something with a name, and he and Tom don't have a name, whatever they are... whatever they've been sometimes-doing for the past six months.

Tom chuckles a bit, and Jon's hyper-aware senses don't miss the hint of nerves present in the sound. "Okay. Yeah. Okay. So you wanna know what I'll do when you get home?"

What Jon means to say is _fuck, yes_ , but this whole thing is a little new and all that comes out is, "Okay."

There's a little shifting of covers on the other line, and Jon imagines what Tom must be doing, slipping his fingers between the sheets ( _his_ sheets, Jon's, in his _bed_ , fuck) and taking his cock into his hand as he speaks.

"Well," he says softly, "I figure I'll probably start by dragging you to the bedroom and shoving you up against the door."

Jon grips his cock a little tighter at that, his breathing low and shallow. He's not particularly kinky, but he knows, that after being on the road for as long as they have that his and Tom's reunion will be hot and desperate, kisses rough as hands roam over skin so dearly missed.

"You always do get a little desperate when I'm gone too long." Jon can hear Tom's throaty chuckle and another shift and he closes his eyes, listening to his best friend's breathing.

"What can I say, Jonny? You're a great fuck." The words shouldn't sting like they do, but Jon pushes them away, focuses on the sound of Tom's breathing instead. Now's not the time to get emotional.

"So you're going to shove me up against the door? Then what, Tom?"

Tom chuckles again, a little breathless as he speaks, "Impatient are we? Fine then. I'd kiss you hard, nipping at your lip in that way that you like, my hands sliding under your shirt. I can already feel you, hard against my leg. Are you hard Jonny?"

And maybe there's still noise from the lounge, Brendon's laughter or Ryan's whining or Spencer's mediating, breaking through the walls now and then, and this is crazy, Jon feels like a teenager locked in his bedroom hoping to god his parents won't hear.

But yeah. He's hard. All the way. And he tells Tom as much.

"You touching yourself?" Tom asks.

"Duh."

"Good boy."

"You're such a slut."

"Me?! 'Oh, Tommy, talk dirty to me!'"

"Shut _up_!"

"Okay."

"Dude. No."

Tom laughs, smug and obnoxious, and Jon wishes they were face to face just so he could try and fail to glare at him. "So I can feel you against my leg, right... and maybe I'll start playing with the button on your jeans a bit... not popping it yet, just teasing you. I know you love it when I tease."

"Bitch." But even as he says it, his eyelids flutter as his hand picks up speed, just a bit. Not too much. He's still in control, really, he is.

"You know you like it, Jon." Jon hears Tom's breath catch and he can only assume that the other man is finally touching himself on the other end of the phone, hand wrapped loosely around his cock, the sheets pushed down for better access. Tom's eyes will be closed as he speaks and every so often his breath will hitch as his thumb slides over the head of his dick. "I'd palm your dick through your jeans, sucking hard on your neck as your cock twitches in my hand. I want to mark you, let everyone know that you're mine. But it'd be a secret, wouldn't it, Jonny. Because no one knows that you let me fuck you, let me bend you over the couch and take you hard and fast, whenever I please."

Jon moans then; he can't help it. The imagery is just too much and his hand stutters in its movement around his dick. No one knows for sure what's going on between him and Tom; hell, _he_ doesn't even know. But they're not doing a great job of hiding things, if even Brendon is figuring shit out.

"God, yes. Tom. Fuck. Mark me, please. I want you so bad. Want you to touch me. Want you to fuck me."

"Shit," Tom gasps, the rhythm of his breath dissolving to a scattered stutter. "Yeah. Yeah, I will. I'll suck you off for a bit first, y'know, pin your hips against the door and swallow you down until you're begging for it -- "

"I don't _beg_ ," Jon huffs indignantly, the hint of diva making him feel, horrifyingly, a little like Ryan.

Tom just smiles, so big it's audible. "You will."

Jesus _fuck._

"And then -- then, when you can't take it anymore, I'll spread you out on the bed, slick up my fingers, and slip one inside..."

Some embarrassing gasp-moan-incoherent-syllable noise trips out of Jon's mouth, and it's that moment, _there_ , then, that the bunk door slides open with a whoosh and Brendon's stupid (seriously, _stupid_ ) face appears above, eyes wide.

Jon's own eyes go wide and he fumbles a bit, the phone slipping in his hand as he tries to cover himself. "Shit."

Brendon's face blooms into a devious smile and he turns his face over his shoulder to crow, "Jonny Walker's getting it on with his _boyfriend_!"

Flushing with two parts embarrassment and one part lust (seriously, he's been fucking Tom far too long if he's seriously getting off on public masturbation and the sheer humiliation of having been caught with his pants around his knees), Jon growls at Brendon, throwing the nearest thing his hand touches-Spencer's precious white loafers-at the singer's head.

"Get. Out. _Now_." Brendon's laughing as he backs out and no doubt Jon will hear about this for the rest of his life but it doesn't stop him from wrapping his fingers back around his cock, trying to resume the rhythm he had before.

"Tom. You still there?"

For a second Jon worries he's lost the call, until a squeaky, choppy, high-pitched noise tells him Tom's already reached the point of silent hysterics.

"Dude!" he tries to say as scoldingly as possible, which fails pretty hard with the smile in his voice.

"Oh my god," Tom gasps, catching his breath. "Oh fuck, that was awesome."

"Yeah. Awesome is totally the word I was thinking, too."

"Oh, dude. Fuck." Tom lets the rest of his exhale end in a lazy giggle. "Want to keep going?"

"Um, yeah."

"Okay. So we're -- "

Whatever else he might say is lost in a _whoosh_ echoing the first, only with a more defined sense of urgency, and as Spencer's face appears in the doorway, eyes icy and sharp, a white shoe brandished in one hand as Jon fights to cover himself again.

Spencer closes his eyes a moment, as if to steady himself. "Which. Hand. Did. You. Use. To. Throw. This."

Jon bites down on his lip, raising his unsullied left hand. White lies never hurt anyone, and the truth would've undoubtedly earned him several broken limbs.

"Okay," Spencer says evenly, backing out. "Okay." A little grin steals over his lips before the door shuts. "Lookin' good, Walker."

"Fuck _off_ , or I'll jizz all over your vintage Nikes!"

"Not _funny_!" Spencer yells, but the door's closed.

Jon sighs into the phone, taking in another round of Tom's hysterics, mingling with the sound of Ryan's sudden guffaw from the other room. Fuck this band, seriously. "Guess maybe this isn't the best time."

"Yeah..." Tom sighs. "Two weeks?"

Jon echoes his sigh, looking mournfully down at his cock which seems no longer interested in their previous activities. "Yeah, two weeks."

They talk a little while longer, meaningless things but Jon aches to be back home, curled against Tom as they recount the time that they both really drunk and Sisky dared them to streak naked through their apartment complex and Jon tripped going up the stairs and he managed to get rug burn on his dick and it hurt to pee because he had to hold it.

Twenty minutes later a silence has elapsed between them and Jon suddenly realizes that they've run out of things to say, things that don't cross any line of friendship that they've laid out. He yearns to tell Tom everything, to ease the ache in his heart for just a minute, but the fear of the residual backlash of his actions holds him back.

Jon looks up when Ryan pokes his head in and he thanks God that he'd had the notion to make himself presentable, everything all tucked away where it's supposed to go. Ryan gives him a small, wry smile and cocks his head a little in an apology.

"We're here, Jon. Fifteen minutes until sound check." And then he's gone, his voice rising, clear even through the closed door, as he scolds Brendon-"Hands _off_ the Red Bull, Urie!"-and Jon turns his attention back to Tom, who's gone quiet on the other end.

"Two weeks, Tom. I'll be home in two weeks."

+++

Fuck two weeks. Two weeks blows.

It's like acknowledging their existence has made them stretch to obscene lengths, every day feeling like a week in itself.

The boys don't make it any easier, either, with Brendon leaving a super-sized bottle of lube in Jon's bunk one day, Spencer hoarding his shoes like a lioness would her cub, and Ryan breaking through the morning silence at breakfast with, "So, Jon, how's it hanging?" while everyone snorts into their cereal.

Fucking _children_.

And, what, it's not like Jon actually does laundry or anything before the flight home, it's not like he insists on a hotel with one of those little pop-out boards so he can iron that shirt Tom said he loves so much; it's not like he buys Tom's favorite candy at the airport before the flight back.

Okay, so he maybe totally does all of those things.

Whatever. He's home.

And it's not like Jon actually _expects_ Tom to show up at the airport, to be waiting for him when he steps off that plane, weary and bone-tired, a dull headache throbbing behind his eyes after spending three hours with a screaming kid in his ear, but that doesn't stop the tension from leaking from his shoulders when he spots his best friend, waiting patiently Jon, the grin on his face getting wider when he spots Jon, like they do this all the time. Jon somehow manages to find the energy to smile brighter, his hand raised in a greeting before he's by Tom's side, greeting him with a hug.

They stand there, waiting for Jon's luggage to arrive and Tom's got his hand on the back of Jon's neck, rubbing the taught muscles beneath his fingertips and by the time his bag's arrived, Jon's almost asleep on his feet, the road-weary feeling seeping out of him with each circle of Tom's fingers. Tom ushers him out front, out to the car and Jon simply folds himself in, head resting against the window and though he tells himself he won't, he's asleep before they've even left the terminal, Tom's hand resting on his thigh.

When he opens his eyes, the old leathery smell of Tom's car is the first thing that comes to him, but the engine's not running and there's a slight chill in the air. Looking across where he's sprawled in the passenger seat, he sees Tom facing him, curled up on his side, the driver's seat angled back.

"Where are we?" Jon mumbles, too bleary to stifle his yawn.

"Outside the apartment. I didn't want to wake you."

"How long have we been here?"

"Couple hours."

"Shit, man, you could've --"

"It's okay."

Tom smiles gently and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind Jon's ear, and Jon tries hard not to blurt it out right then, the five words that have been threatening to burst out at all the wrong times ever since that day on the bus.

Jon leans into the touch slightly, his eyes slipping closed again and he realizes that this might be extremely girly of him and that he's probably just given Tom ammunition in which to blackmail him with, but he's tired and he can't help it. Tom feels like comfort.

Yawning, Jon pulls back after a few minutes and reaches for the door handle. "Come on, before we freeze." He climbs out, stumbling slightly from being still half-asleep on his feet and he reaches out to steady himself before he's reaching into the backseat for his bags, only to find that Tom's already gotten them and is halfway to the stairs leading up to Jon's apartment. Jon blinks and then smiles, shaking his head, shutting the door behind him as he jogs slightly to catch up.

It seems that Tom's always one step ahead of him, keys already out and the door unlocked before Jon even has time to think about where his own are. He feels sluggish and loose, eyes itchy and he makes a beeline for the couch, not even bothering to offer to take his bags from Tom. He collapses, hunched down on the worn material and, as if sensing that their owner has finally returned, Clover and Dylan are winding themselves around him and Jon lifts his hand, rubbing absently at their backs. The apartment smells like Tom and it's overwhelming almost, filling his head, making it fuzzy.

He senses more than hears Tom approach, sinking down onto the couch on the other side of Jon. His eyes flutter open to meet Tom's blue ones and he gives a smile, strained around the edges. The dull throb behind is eyes is still there, but it's sharper, more intense.

"So. I had an epiphany on tour."

Tom matches his smile, but it's brighter, not weighted as Jon's is, with unspoken words and fear and secrets. His hand, trapped between his own knee and Jon's, creeps up to poke at Jon's leg. "That phone sex on a tour bus is like sexual suicide?"

Jon chuckles. "That, _and_."

It sounds like there should be more, and there is, but as his eyes settle into Tom's, the words get lost somewhere on the journey from his throat to his lips. "I."

As he continues staring at Tom, he can sense Tom's face isn't braced for the kind of epiphany he's about to dump on him. His face is calm, open, warm, and Jon's about to say something that could ensure he may never see that expression again.

Tom nudges him again. "What?"

The butterflies that have been swarming his stomach since The Moment of Truth seem to grow, and suddenly Jon's not sure this was such a good idea. Tom's still looking at him, but his expression has shifted into something vaguely amused, an eyebrow raised.

"Come on, Jon. What's up? You look like you're about to express your undying love or something."

Jon swallows and looks away, rubbing the back of his neck as he chuckles awkwardly. He knows he just gave himself away and he's afraid to look back at Tom, to see the questions that will no doubt be in his eyes. "Yeah, about that."

"Jon. _Jon_. Look at me." Tom's voice is off and it makes Jon turn to look at him. Tom looks confused and unsure and Jon's stomach is dropping so fast he feels physically ill. He takes a stuttered breath, inhales sharply as he offers Tom an apologetic smile.

"I'm in love with you, Tom. Somewhere, I turned into a hopeless romantic." He shrugs, knowing that he can't give Tom anything else; lies aren't an option with them.

Jon spends ten seconds not looking at Tom before he decides that's even harder, and slowly lifts his eyes.

Jon's not used to this, not being able to read him. Besides his default camera face, Tom's not one for exaggerated, animated expressions like Brendon, and Jon's taken a certain pride in having worked to learn all the little subtleties over the years, all the tiny, barely noticeable quirks that make up the difference between one emotion and the next.

And right now he might as well be looking at a blank sheet of paper.

Either that, or he's lost his ability to read, and that -- that's even scarier.

"Um." He's suddenly wide awake, head swirling with activity. "Yeah. Okay. So."

He's jumping up and heading for the door before he even has a chance to contemplate where he's even going and he thinks Tom might be saying something, but he can't be sure over the blood rushing in his ears and really, he can't stick around for this. Not right now. He's feeling strung-out, wound tighter than he was when he stepped off that plane and he's beginning to wonder why he ever thought this was a good idea in the first place.

The bitter cold of Chicago hits him like a slap in the face when Jon steps outside of the apartment complex and he regrets not grabbing a jacket as he takes off down the sidewalk. He doesn't know where he's going, only that he doesn't want to be here and it sounds so cliche, even in his own head that he laughs slightly, bitter and angry, eyes burning.

" _Fuck_." It's only when he reaches Navy Pier, the lights he's seen a million times through the lens of his camera never looking more beautiful, that he wishes he had the weight of his Nikon in his hands. Hell, he'd even kill for a cigarette right then, anything to give him something to focus on, to soothe the restlessness inside of him. He shoves his hands into his pockets, bitterly musing to himself that he'd probably just drop the damn thing, his hands are shaking so bad.

Jon settles himself on the low wall nearby and he takes a deep breath, the icy air burning his lungs and his eyes sting. He's not crying, he's not-fucking Chicago winters-but the warmth on his cheeks tells a different story. The place where his heart should be feels empty and a trifle cliche and he _knows/_ he's being a sissy about the whole thing but it's _Tom_ , and he can't stop himself from yelling into the frosty night, anguish mixing with the tears on his face.

Losing Tom is worse than never having him at all.

He laughs suddenly, sharp and bitter into the cold, at the burst of self-awareness when he realizes how he must sound. Scuffing his shoe against the concrete, his eyes lift to the ferris wheel at the end of the pier.

Tom took him here when Panic asked him to stay on permanent, made a whole day out of it and stuffed him with cotton candy and bought him stupid souvenirs. Jon had responded with, "I _live_ here, asshole, I don't need souvenirs," but Tom had just smiled and said, "In case you forget where home is."

Jon had almost wanted to say, _Home is wherever you are._

Tom took him up on the ferris wheel and lectured him that Panic would try to turn him into a girl and make him wear eyeliner and skinny jeans, and Jon had laughed through it, shaking his head. He remembers the first message Tom had sent after spotting Jon on a magazine cover in Ross-applied makeup, fringed hair, and circus attire, the text consisting of a three-inch variation of "HAHAHAHA".

And he thinks, yeah, losing him entirely would be worse, worse than this, worse than not having him the way he wants, worse than _anything_ \-- and it's enough to make him turn on his heel and start for home.

When he reaches the apartment, he pauses out side the door to collect his thoughts. It's going to be hard to take it all back, but he will; he needs Tom in life way worse than he needs for Tom to be in love with him. He's going through possible scenarios in his head for how this could possibly go as he reaches for the doorknob and he blinks in surprise when he finds it's no longer there and instead, he's staring at the bare feet of his best friend. He looks up, blinking in confusion and before he has a chance to register that, oh yeah, Tom is still in his apartment and he _hasn't_ left Jon, not yet, Jon's embraced in the tightest hug of his life. Tom's mumbling something, but Jon can't really hear it over the ragged emotion that's tearing at Tom's words and cracking his voice.

"Tom?"

"God dammit, Jon! Why didn't you at least take your _phone_? I've been going crazy and I was damn near ready to call the cops because you just took off." Tom's voice is thick with something that sounds suspiciously like tears and Jon blinks again, still utterly confused. "You took off and I couldn't find you and. Don't scare me like that, Jon. I can't stand the thought of losing you."

At that, something inside Jon flares a little with hope and he struggles to stamp it out before it overtakes him. Instead, he wraps his arms around Tom, resting his head on his best friend's shoulder, Tom inside and him still standing on his bright doormat-cheerfully proclaiming 'Welcome!'-lips moving against Tom's neck and he can almost taste his aftershave, the scent that's so totally _Tom._

"You'll never lose me, Tom. I'm right here." Jon is vaguely aware that they're like a rehearsed scene from some poorly directed 'b' movie and it's that that gives him the motivation to move them inside, the door shutting behind them with a soft 'click', silence hanging around them.

The movement detaches their embrace, and they're face to face again before Jon's braced himself for it. Tom's still wearing that stupid unreadable look like it's the new style, and Jon spends about ten seconds thinking up all the dozens of things it could mean and how it's going to translate into words once Tom decides to open his mouth.

But words seem less and less likely as the seconds tick by. Tom takes a step back, which modifies about eighty of the scenarios Jon had been envisioning, and then takes a step forward, and Jon kind of stops trying to figure anything out.

Too much Ryan Ross does crazy shit to you, seriously.

Just as Jon's begun to accept the possibility that talking may not actually happen, Tom runs a hand raggedly through his hair and blurts, "Why did you leave?"

Jon's kind of caught off-guard with that because, in all his speculating, that wasn't exactly what he was thinking would be the first words out of Tom's mouth. And he can still hear the worry and ragged nerves in his voice and that confuses him even more. He expected yelling or disgust or for Tom to not even be at his apartment _at all_ , so this turn of events has him reeling slightly.

He opens his mouth to reply and then closes it, because suddenly, his actions seem foolish, even if, at the time, they switched on his fight or flight mechanism. Ducking his head slightly, Jon looks at Tom through the fringe in his bangs, his hair having grown out just enough for him to hide behind. Fucking Ross.

"I freaked out?" He swallows, his voice hoarse from screaming and he vaguely wonders just _why_ he'd thought that had been a good idea? Sighing, he suddenly feels so much older than twenty-three and he's pretty sure that he shouldn't feel this tired already. "Listen, Tom. Can't we just pretend this didn't happen? We can just pick up where we left before and we'll chalk it up to me being tired out of my mind and years from now, we'll laugh on it."

Jon looks up and if his eyes are a little desperate, Tom doesn't mention it. Instead, he's looking at Jon with this calculating expression that Jon's never seen, as if he doesn't really know what to do with the man in front of him. It twists something inside Jon's stomach and he's really, really starting to regret ever opening his mouth. Tom speaks and it makes the thing in his stomach turn to ice.

"No."

And. Okay. No.

Jon had been prepared for no. No is pretty much the logical response here. Tom's not gay. Okay, so he's not straight either, judging by activities of the last six months, but he's not the kind of guy to fall in love with a guy and get married in Massachusetts and adopt a little Chinese baby or anything. I mean, it's _Tom._

But this kind of no is worse somehow. It's harsher, and Jon doesn't even know how much it's covering.

"Okay," he says quietly. "Okay. So. No. Okay. So -- "

And Tom's kissing him.

Stepping clear into his space, cupping his face, and kissing him.

"I -- _no_ ," Jon snaps, pushing him away, and suddenly 'no' makes a lot more sense. "I -- you can't just _do_ that, that's not fair!"

"Jesus, Jonny, you've been hanging around Ross too much." (And Jon's halfway to barking out, _This is what I'm saying._ ) "He's made you all emo and shit, making everything complicated when it's _not_!"

"Jesus, Tom, fuck that, okay. How, just, _how_ is this not complicated?!"

Tom chuckles and if Jon weren't freaking out just a _little_ , he'd totally be punching him for being an asshole. It's not right that Jon's been having an existential crisis and Tom just gets to laugh it off like it isn't any big deal. Fucker.

"You're really slow, you know that, Jon?" Tom moves close to Jon again, crowding him back up against the door, bracketing him in with his body. There's something amused in Tom's eyes and the chunk of ice in Jon's stomach melts a little, his throat dry as he swallows. "I freaked out and okay, so I really shouldn't have because we've been friends for _years_ and yea, so we've had this _thing_ for the last six months or whatever, and maybe you're not the only one that's figure out they're in love with their best friend, except that I freaked out because it wasn't supposed to be like this and I think, I think I thought things would change."

Jon's maybe staring at Tom in disbelief because honestly? He's never heard him ramble like that in his entire life. Tom isn't exactly one for excessive use of words and he's usually really eloquent when he does speak. So the fact that he just monologued in a decidedly rambly fashion makes Jon fall in love with him a little more.

"Tom."

"I'm sorry I made you run out, that I didn't speak up when I should have-"

"Tom."

"-but I love you, Jon."

" _Tom_." And okay, so maybe Tom's rambling is completely out of character (and utterly adorable), but Jon just presses a finger over his lips to silence him, a small smile on his lips as he looks back at Tom, feeling suddenly lighter than he has in weeks. "I love you too, douchebag."

Tom grins beneath his finger, and Jon lets his hand drop just to see. He doesn't get much time to observe, because Tom's getting closer and then there are lips and tongues again but this time there's no _no_ ; everything is _yes_.

They're quick, nipping kisses at first, little pecks that get heavier and then lighter beneath their matching grins. Jon mumbles, "Hey, hey," against his mouth, and when they separate, "move in with me."

Tom snorts. "You're a fucking _dork_ ," and that's the end of that.

Jon's still grinning like a dork when Tom leans in and kisses him and it's soft and so completely different than the kisses before. Jon immediately melts into it, his hands coming up to fist in Tom's shirt, tugging him closer. Already he fan feel the flutter of arousal through his veins and he realizes just how long it's been since he's felt Tom's hands on him. And as hot as it is, he doesn't want his first time back to be like this. Yea, _so_ been hanging out with Ross and his harlequin girl moods too long.

"Tom. Bedroom. Now."

Grinning, Tom all but carries him to the bedroom, trying to pull off clothes and keep their mouths sealed together at the same time. They stumble into Jon's room and break away just long enough to make short work of their jeans, hands tripping over buttons in their haste. Jon's barely got his jeans worked down past his knees and kicked off before Tom's tackling him on the bed, pinning him to the mattress beneath him. Jon grins up at him, his eyes soft and he knows that he's got to seem like the world's biggest _girl_ right now, but he can't help it. He reached up to brush back a lock of Tom's hair, his heart swelling when Tom turns his head to kiss his palm, gentle and heaven forbid, romantic.

"Hi."

Tom's answering grin has a matching one blooming over Jon's face and he leans up to kiss the other man, his hand sliding up to curl around the back of Tom's head, keeping him close. Their lips slide against each other, teasing, tongue darting out to lick wetly at the swollen flesh. Jon spreads his legs a little, making room for Tom in the v between them.

"Missed you." The whispered words in Jon's ear sound like so much more than a confession and Jon pulls Tom closer, mouthing promises and words against his collarbone.

"Missed you, too."

And as Tom's hips shift a little against Jon's, it becomes rapidly clear just how much missing was going on.

"Fuck," Jon stutters against his lips, arching his hips off the mattress for more friction.

Tom's sucking little kisses down Jon's neck as he whispers, "If you insist."

Yeah. Jon insists.

Lips reattaching with Tom's, he's stretching his free hand out aimlessly for the nightstand, but Tom's own hand shoots out and closes around Jon's wrist, pulling it back to the bed as Tom grins into his mouth.

"Slow down, man," he whispers. "'m not ready for this to be over that fast. And trust me -- " He grinds down suddenly, drawing a shuddering moan from Jon's throat, "it would be."

If Jon whimpers a little into Tom's mouth, neither of them comment on it and Jon pulls Tom back down, his hips arching up into Tom's. Since they'd started this thing, they'd had more than a healthy sex life and Tom has the ability to reduce Jon to a mess of writhing limbs and whorish moans. Now is no exception.

Tom breaks the kiss, nipping down Jon's jaw and Jon eagerly tilts his head to the side, giving Tom more room to work with. His own hands are tracing the planes of Tom's body and they brush over his nipples, making him gasp. Each of Tom's kisses lingers like a fiery brand and Jon's cock twitches, already leaking. Tom shifts then, breaking the contact between their hips and Jon let's out a strangled sound of protest.

"Trust me, Jon. You'll like what I'm doing." Smirking, Tom slides down his body and fists Jon's cock, making him arch into it with a hiss, fingers clawing at the bedsheets beneath him. Looking up at him from where he'd settled between Jon's legs, Tom holds Jon's gaze as he lowers his head, deftly licking at the crown of Jon's dick, tongue swirling lazily around the head, collecting the pre-cum that's gathered there.

"T-Tom."

Tom makes a noise of appreciation around his mouthful and Jon reaches down, grabbing a handful of hair, hard enough that it should be painful. Tom just moans, getting off on the sharp spikes of pain in his scalp, swallowing more of Jon's dick. He's got one hand on Jon's hip to keep him from bucking up into his mouth and choking him to death, which, quite frankly, would be a waste of a super talented mouth.

"Fuck, Tom. I'm not." Jon gasps as Tom hollows out his cheeks, moving down until Jon's hitting the back of his throat and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to count backwards from a thousand to keep from ending this so soon, but it's hard. Tom's mouth around him is hot and wet, tight, and his tongue's doing wicked, wicked things to the head of his dick. "Tom."

Tom delves his tongue into Jon's piss slit and Jon's gone, back arching as he comes hard into Tom's mouth, spots dancing behind his eyes and Tom's name on his lips. Tom milks him through it, his mouth working slowly, hand twisting at the base as he does his best to draw out Jon's orgasm.

Jon opens his eyes, breathing ragged and he's staring up at Tom who's got a teasing smile on his lips. "You okay there, Jonny?"

Jon matches his smile, or attempts it, trying to remember how the muscles in his face work. "Yeah."

"Yeah?"

"Might be better if you'd fuck me, though."

Tom's smooth, but not smooth enough to stop the little hitch in his breath, the quick flutter of his eyelids, at Jon's words. "I think I can do that."

Jon can't help the smug smirk that graces his lips before he's hauling Tom up to kiss him hungrily. Tom seems to be caught by surprise and he moans loudly into the kiss and Jon swallows it, arching up into Tom. He's only just come, but already his cock is stirring back to life and Jon groans when their cocks brush against each other.

"Jon..." Tom's voice is ragged with want and Jon presses his hips up against Tom's again, just to hear his name on his lips one more time. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing that, especially dripping with lust. Reaching over on the nightstand, Jon grabs the lube and pulls back to catch Tom's eye as he drizzles it over his fingers, coating them liberally.

Tom shifts above Jon, settling against his side as Jon spreads his legs wider, reaching down to press one digit into himself, his head thrown back, mouth open in a low moan as his finger breaches the muscle. Tom's mouth has gone dry at the sight and he's mesmerized by the pretty picture of Jon all laid out for him, finger pumping in and out of his body.

"Tom..." Tom's eyes fly up to lock with Jon's, who's looking at him with such want that Tom almost comes right them. He follows the silent plea in Jon's eyes and coats his own fingers, pressing one long digit in alongside Jon's, moaning at the feel of their fingers brushing together as they pump in and out of Jon's more than willing body. Tom thinks, vaguely, that it's more intimate this way and he's never in a million years fantasized about opening up Jon together, but he knows that this will give him plenty of masturbation material later.

Jon keens low in his throat and Tom pulls his finger out with Jon's and then presses two more back in, twisting them around Jon's still inside his body. Tom's cock is leaking profusely and Jon's is angry red, curled up against his stomach, leaving glistening streaks against his taut belly.

"Please, Tom. I can't. I need. _Fuck_." Jon groans and bucks his hips as their combined fingers brush against his prostate and he opens his eyes, his lust-glazed eyes locking on Tom's. Tom swallows thickly and nods absently before he's pulling out his fingers and reaching for a condom, his hands slipping against the foil wrapper. A low chuckle has him looking up, only to see Jon's eyebrow raised, a smirk curled on his lips.

"Shut the fuck up," Tom growls, finally managing to get the condom in place. He settles himself between Jon's legs and kisses him silent, rocking his hips against Jon's, his cock sliding in between Jon's cheeks, pressing against his hole. "Fuck, want you so bad, Jonny."

Jon groans and wraps his legs around Tom's waist, pulling him closer as he tugs Tom down for a deep kiss, his tongue licking into his mouth. Jon can taste the coffee that Tom must have drank earlier, stale and thick on his tongue and he moans at the taste of it mixed with Tom's own flavor.

Tom shifts a little, braces himself on his forearms and then he's inside of Jon, sliding easily into him, his dick in a vice-like grip inside of Jon. It's tight as _fuck_ inside and Tom's knows, can tell, that Jon hasn't been with anyone since their last time, hasn't given himself up for anyone but Tom. That, if possible, makes Tom love him more.

Hissing through the initial stretch and sting, Jon's clinging to Tom, mouthing broken words and sentences against Tom's collarbone, a litany of _please_ and _yes_ and _I'm sorry_ and _I love you_. The last one, Tom hears loud and clear, even without Jon's voice to accompany it. Tom keeps pushing, until he's seated balls-deep inside of Jon and he pauses, trying to catch his breath and gather his thoughts to keep from coming on the spot. Jon is tight around him, warm and wet and despite his firm grasp of Tom's dick, the slide is easy and smooth. When Jon makes a small noise of protest, Tom shifts his hips some, rocking them against Jon's body, lithe and pliant beneath him.

" _Fuck_ , Jon. You feel so good around me. I've missed this so much." Tom's voice is deeper, gravelly and it sends shivers of desire up Jon's spine. He moves his hips in time to Tom's, meeting his slow and steady pace and already, he can feel the burn and fire of his impending orgasm curling somewhere in his belly. He knew that coming off tour things would be over pretty quickly-quick phone sex and his right hand didn't do _shit_ for his desire-but he's hoping to last just a little longer than this. _Christ_ , he's not sixteen anymore.

"Tom. Tom. Love you. Love you so much." And there he goes, sounding like a girl again, but the way Tom just kisses him hard and heated tells him that it doesn't matter, that Tom knows _exactly_ how it feels. Jon licks eagerly into Tom's mouth, his hips still moving in accord with Tom's thrusts and he can feel how close Tom is already, feel the erratic rhythm as he thrusts into Jon's body. Jon grins, feels like making a sarcastic and witty remark about Tom's stamina, but then Tom's stomach is brushing against the head of his cock, just so, and Jon's left with his mouth hanging open in a silent cry, his orgasm washing over him in shocking waves, completely catching him off-guard.

Tom fucks him through it, just a couple of thrusts into Jon's oversensitive prostate and then he's coming too, Jon's name a whisper on his lips, breathy against Jon's neck. His arms give out then, and Jon lets out a small 'oomph' as he takes all of Tom's weight, but he's not complaining, not yet. He's missed this, just the two of them together, lazy and fluid in the post-coital glow of their love-making. Jon can't help the goofy grin that crosses his face at that thought and he shifts a little under Tom, pulling him closer.

"What are you smiling about?" Tom sounds drowsy and sated, his breath coming out in warm puffs against Jon's ear and Jon's pretty sure that he's already falling asleep. Jon just shakes his head and presses a kiss to Tom's temple and shifts him off to the side, climbing out of bed and padding across the room to the bathroom, cleaning up before coming back with a wash cloth to clean up Tom. Tom's laid out almost diagonal across Jon's bed, the sheets pull haphazardly over his naked body and Jon takes a minute to appreciate his beauty. Tom cracks an eye open and stretches slightly, making a displeased sound in the back of his throat.

"You're too far away, Jonny Walker."

Jon grins and shuffles to the bed, turning the light off along the way. The moonlight spills in across the bed, creating shapes across Tom's pale skin and Jon snuggles in next to him, curling into Tom as easily as a natural magnetic pull. Tom mumbles something in his sleep, pulling Jon closer and he can't help but smile, his own eyes falling shut. The last thing he sees before his eye shut, are the lights of the ferris wheel reflecting off the water and Jon can't help but think to himself, _welcome home._

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted at justranda/nothinginfinite on livejournal.


End file.
